Chapter 2Behind The Bandages Of The Billionaires Forgotten Daughter

The agony in my heart completely eclipsed the physical pain in my hands.

My father, Marcus Riley, the one who saw my bleeding body as a source of plague, could spend six months traveling the world and undergoing expensive treatments for Eliza, who suffered from the exact same disease.

And my mother, Naomi, who claimed to be so faint-hearted and terrified of blood she couldn't care for me for more than a week, somehow managed to stop fainting whenever Eliza bled.

And then there was my "kind" sister. She knew firsthand how painful EB was, yet in the six months since her own diagnosis, she never once thought to seek me out.

She was enjoying high-end, professional treatment while I, the idiot, genuinely believed our family was too poor to care for me and had no choice but to abandon me.

My appearance startled Eliza. She didn't know what she had said to provoke such a reaction.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Oh my God, she’s lost it because the heiress mentioned her family?”

“But she asked the question! Why is she even streaming if she’s this fragile?”

“If I were her family, I wouldn’t be able to handle her either. Clearly, not everyone can be as strong and optimistic as the heiress. She deserves her parents' love.”

Reading those words, a hysterical, tearful laugh bubbled up in my chest. If they knew that the "heiress" and I shared the same parents, would they still say that?

Hearing that his daughter was being upset on her stream, my father rushed into the frame.

He looked at me, my face covered in bandages, with pure contempt.

“My daughter was trying to help you out of the goodness of her heart, and this is how you repay her? And you have the nerve to claim you look like her sister? These days, every stray cat and dog thinks they can claim to be a Riley! Take a look in the mirror—you don’t deserve to speak our name!”

My heart had gone past aching; it was numb.

Eliza merely suggested helping, and without knowing anything, he accused me of ingratitude. In his mind, only Eliza was worthy of being his daughter.

I'd always known about his unconditional favoritism towards Eliza. They looked strikingly similar. I, on the other hand, didn't resemble either parent much and had been subject to his low-grade suspicion of being illegitimate.

Though a DNA test confirmed I was his daughter—a case of a grandparent's features skipping a generation—my father remained emotionally distant.

Perhaps this was why he invented the whole "poverty test." He hid his billionaire status, hoping the struggle would either force me to become "outstanding" or give him the perfect excuse to leave me in the dark forever.

The test's result was simple: I failed to meet his approval. And then, my skin began to inexplicably tear. My EB diagnosis provided him with the perfect, respectable justification for abandonment.

He hadn't recognized me, yet his disdain was instinctive. Every word was a laceration.

Eliza tried to stop him from speaking to me so harshly, but he sighed dismissively:

“Eliza, not everyone is worth helping. This thing—this half-person, half-monster who frightens people on stream—would be better off dead. Look at her attitude when you tried to be kind! I will make sure she pays for upsetting my daughter!”

My eyes stung, but I had no tears left. The blood soaking my bandages was practically painting half my face, increasing his disgust.

“A streamer with such poor character. I will make sure the platform bans you immediately.”

That final declaration filled me with absolute dread. I knew he meant it. Banning my stream—my only means of survival—was a death sentence.

Had I endured all this pain for so long, only to be crushed by my own father?